


Essence

by Kiss_Shining



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Relationships, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Plot/Plotless, Offhand Fic, Philosophy, Retelling, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 23:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19711603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiss_Shining/pseuds/Kiss_Shining
Summary: Sometimes Vegeta wondered if he was even a true Saiyan anymore.





	Essence

**Author's Note:**

> I'll add an OOC tag if requested.

Vegeta was no more than what he would have considered a toddler out of diapers when his planet was annexed.

As much as he hated to think about it, he still remembered the day that King Cold marched onto their grounds with thousands of soldiers. He remembered how the sun beat down viciously on his back as he stood tall next to his father, trying to remain calm like he did. How the dirt under his shoes cracked under the pressure of his father’s anger.

How King Vegeta ended up conceding regardless.

King Cold had no right to Planet Vegeta. He only had a vested interest in conquest, and their powers took him off guard. It intrigued him, and he wanted the Saiyans’ power for himself. It wasn’t as if he wanted to become their ruler, he had said, he simply wanted to acquire their services. As Saiyans were a fierce warrior race, surely King Vegeta would consider it, wouldn’t he?

But the truth was: he _did_ want to seize their land. He wanted to use them and break them down, and when he grew bored of them, when he gotten all he could out of them, he handed King Vegeta and his people to Frieza like a pair of filthy socks. All that was needed for acquiescence was a simple handshake.

When a young Saiyan warrior was dismembered in front of them in a matter of seconds, both King Vegeta and his son knew that it wasn’t an option. Neither was yielding his own son at Frieza’s behest. At that time, all his father had to say was to maintain his pride and his honor above all else. At the very least, he had said, never forget your origins.

And Vegeta had tried.

Thinking about it, he had tried desperately to keep his culture. He remembered the days that his father used to wine and dine with the elites after a good conquer, the nights where the moon was full and plump, granting to them divine liberty to unleash their true natures, having only the Kais and Kaioshin as witness. They were hazy times because he was so young, but he clung onto it like a lifeline. He utilized Nappa for his memories, for the preservation of his culture. When he travelled to different planets, aiming to get stronger in hopes of assisting his father in Frieza’s ultimate demise, he did some of the rituals he had seen his father do, in honor of his steadfast father, of his people.

But one day, Frieza caught him off-guard, and he pulled Vegeta’s tail so hard that he almost screamed. The tyrant bent it in odd shapes and beat Vegeta with his tail until he was black and blue, until he crawled on the marble floor like nothing more than a third-class commoner, and even then Frieza would not let up. He would not stop until he heard who Vegeta belonged to from his own lips, who was the one that he served. It was no longer King Vegeta, he had hissed, and it was no longer the Saiyan race. As such, he had no reason to practice such foolish traditions. Thankfully, Vegeta’s mind could take no more, and he fell unconscious.

Even if he couldn’t remember the majority of his culture, at the very least, he had thought back then, he still had his planet. He still had his father. He had his identity. He had his independence. And he most certainly still had his pride. He would be alright. He was still the proud Prince of all Saiyans, and nothing could change that.

As the bitter memories ran to the forefront of his mind several decades later, Vegeta fell unconscious as well.

* * *

Sometimes, Vegeta wondered what the demise of his planet must have looked like.

When it had happened, he was a planet far, far away. Frieza had sent him on another mission after his father died. King Vegeta had met an untimely death while in conquest of another planet, one of Frieza’s underlings informed him at the time, cold and detached, and Vegeta’s mind boiled. He had made it a point to treat that messenger as cruelly as Frieza had done to him all those years ago, and while he may have gotten another beating like he was nothing more than a spoiled child, it had been worth it. Because Vegeta wasn’t stupid enough to believe that his father, King Vegeta, the man who rivaled the power of five hundred Saiyans, could ever be KIA. If there was one person that could ever take down his father, it was the man who imprisoned them all. The man who took pleasure in humiliating Vegeta, the last royal symbol of the Saiyan heritage, in the worst ways possible.

The man who had obliterated Vegeta’s home planet as if it were nothing more than a speck of dust in his way.

He had flirted with dreams of revenge. They had kept him up at night, breathing down his neck until he got up and trained feverishly until the next mission came. And when Frieza had revealed to him that there were more Saiyans out there, that it was more than just Nappa and him that survived, he informed him of his plan as well.

“We will strike when the moment is right,” he would always say whenever they came back from a particularly sour meeting with Dodoria and Zarbon. “Not now.”

But even as he took on more and more missions, visiting planets of an assortment of shapes and sizes, his mind had always wandered back to his home planet, to Planet Vegeta. How had it looked when it exploded? Did the cries of the Saiyan race even reach the bottom of Frieza’s seat? If he could turn back time to see what happened, would it have made a difference? Would he have been able to save his race like his father attempted to?

It no longer mattered. When Vegeta heard of the dragon balls, he had figured that he didn’t need answers; he simply needed restitution. The blood thirst that screamed in Vegeta’s veins was telling him that he needed immortality by any means necessary, and if that meant threatening a whole planet of innocent people to do it, then he would gladly stick his hands in the mud and grab for it. It wasn’t like it was a particularly foreign concept to him.

At long last, he had thought, he would be able to prove that there was at least one Saiyan alive. After so many years, he could proudly display the pride that he had tucked away in the name of safety and perseverance. Once he defeated Raditz’s traitorous brother, he and Nappa would be able to rule the universe in place of all the Saiyans that were mercilessly slaughtered.

The throbbing scars on Vegeta’s back reminded him that Kakarot hadn’t been so weak, and he closed that chapter of his life to prevent the cycle of self-hatred and bitterness from baptizing the depths of his mind. There wasn’t a reason to feel guilty or pathetic for how he was.

Because at the very least, back then, he still had his pride, his independence, and his identity, and nothing could change that.

* * *

And then his tail had been chopped off.

Sitting on a slightly wobbly wooden chair in the living room was a strangely painful reminder of what Vegeta used to have. Decades have passed, and Vegeta should have adjusted, but perhaps like those Earthling soldiers that lost their limbs, he had a phantom pain on his lower back, like something was supposed to be there. And something _was_ supposed to be there: his tail, his identity, his marker that boldly announced that he wasn’t just another humanoid creature.

Shifting in his seat, half-tuning out the woman who insisted on telling him about her newest techs and gadgets that had nothing to do with him, his mind traced back to when he first arrived to Earth. He had thrown caution to the wind for the rare chance that he knew he wouldn’t get again, if not for Frieza, then for simple happenstance, and he raced to Earth to get the dragon balls in hopes of defeating him. It didn’t matter how much of a gap there was between him and his tormentor if he couldn’t be killed, and Frieza knew that well. Perhaps if he had been successful, he could have lived long enough to witness the agony on his face as the man he once toyed with stuck his “disgusting little monkey” fingers into his chest and ripped his heart out, all veins and arteries attached.

Instead, he had been prematurely stopped by a quandary in the form of a third-class Saiyan who was thought to be dead. Not once, but twice over.

Kakarot had stopped him, and then one of his little minions snuck up behind him like a coward and cut the only visible evidence of his heritage off. 

Just like that. His unique ability to transform at the full moon had been gone in the flick of a wrist. His connection to his father, to his long lost planet, to Nappa, who he thought would have been better off dead if he had to depend on Vegeta for anything, to Raditz, who died giving him this chance. All of it had flopped gracelessly on the floor as his tail did.

He had been livid. So incredibly livid that he swore to kill Kakarot the next time he saw him, but he had more important things to worry about. He had to get to Namek before Frieza did, because he had known that there wasn’t a chance in hell that he didn’t hear, or at the very least, Zarbon and Dodoria and Cui didn’t hear and report back to him.

But he had failed miserably in Namek too, and all he had to show for it was his two long hands. Kakarot had resurrected and relocated him, and he had been stuck on Earth, waiting to hear the good news without any meaningful form of transportation that could get him back. He had to wait, and he was tired of waiting. He had been waiting all of his life for the chance to get revenge for his people, and when the iron was hot, he couldn’t strike. And now that he finally could, this doofus who hadn’t even heard of the name “Frieza” was taking his place, stealing his birthright like some sort of fraudulent Jacob. But Vegeta wasn’t going to be played like Esau.

The moment he had a chance, Vegeta had set off course to track off the man who single-handedly took the last visible remains of his identity, of his past, of his burden. He would have stopped at nothing to even the score. Because at the very least, if he defeated Kakarot, then he would have defeated the man who not only stole the little that was left of his identity; he would have defeated the man who defeated his life-long enemy, which means he would have indirectly defeated Frieza. It wasn’t as nice as killing Frieza himself, but it was the best he could get.

All hope had rested on Kakarot’s defeat. With the pride and the independence he had left, he could still survive. He could still prove to the world that, even alone, the Saiyan race still stood at the top. Frieza was gone, and it had been the Saiyans who had been victorious. Even alone, he could conquer the world like he wanted to without anything to stop him.

He had thought that until the Cell Games.

* * *

On Planet Vegeta, families never served as shackles, as those who were the strongest bonded together regardless of blood. On Planet Earth, that was quite different.

Vegeta hadn’t cared for Bulma in the slightest. She was spoiled, she was needy, and she was selfish. But she was headstrong and he liked that, so when she pushed, he allowed it. She pushed and pushed until out came a spawn of their mixed genes, but he didn’t care for that brat either. Even when Trunks from the Future came, he thought of him as nothing more than a burden. And of course he would, because familial ties had been what damned Planet Vegeta in the end. He knew of the story: his father risked his life to save him, jeopardizing the entire Saiyan race in the process. It would be unnecessarily cruel and unwarranted and completely untrue to place the blame all on his father, but it was true that it served as a trigger for Frieza’s ire.

And yet, there he was with some sort of make-shift family of his own. The Cell Games had started it, but by the time Trunks had died, it was finalized and laminated. Vegeta had accepted Trunks as his son, and he had acted with his heart instead of his head, attacking Cell mercilessly even though it hadn’t done a thing to him. And then, right before Gohan had saved him, he had stepped in his father’s shoes as the man who would do anything for his son, and he couldn’t remain the way he was before. After witnessing the death of his only son, he knew that he had to stay. His own progeny had no right to die off like that, not like his grandfather did. If someone had to go, it should have been Vegeta. He hadn’t even distilled the fine teachings of the little bit of Saiyan tradition he remembered, and he wouldn’t let his son die without it.

He had decided that, and Bulma had made the final decision, snatching away the keys to his freedom.

She bound him to her with patience and love and persistence, nothing that he cared for or even remotely desired. And when she did to Trunks what the humans did to him, for some reason, he found himself too exhausted to do anything more than yell at her for a long while and seethe. She was stripping Trunks’ identity away from her son before the child even had the ability to choose for himself. But his hands and his heart were tied, and Vegeta didn’t do much more than that. As much as he disliked being on Earth, he couldn’t permanently leave her or her son. He couldn’t even inflict bodily harm on them in an irrational fear of the unknown, or even worse, of the inevitable.

She and Trunks had stolen his independence overtime, leaving him shackled to them, and in return, the planet that he once wished to conquer: Earth.

As of then, he had lost his culture, his father, his planet, his identity, and his independence.

All he had left of his Saiyan heritage was his pride.

Just that.

* * *

But now, several years later from Buu’s terror on Earth, Vegeta wondered about that. He had been wondering about that for days, ruminating over it, wondering where in fact he had went awry. When was the defining moment that he stopped being a true Saiyan? Was it when he lost his culture? His planet? His identity?

Was he even a true Saiyan at all, at this point?

Biologically speaking, the answer was irrefutable. If he or Kakarot were to do one of those strange DNA tests, they would come out as nothing less than alien. But psychologically speaking, emotionally speaking, maybe even physiologically speaking, he didn’t feel like a Saiyan. Kakarot, with his god-awful happy-go-lucky smile and his flippant nature, was currently more of a Saiyan than he was. It was strange: Kakarot grew up on Earth, surrounded himself with Earthlings who couldn’t even protect themselves against one child, and yet his drive to fight. His drive to reach new heights. It was something that Vegeta didn’t possess. He had wanted to become stronger; he would have torn the multiverse apart to get what he desired, but it wasn’t for the sake of the thrill of fighting. It was for blood thirst, for revenge, for dominance. But he lost all that when he lost his identity.

The last piece of Saiyan heritage he held dear, his pride, was smashed under Beerus’ presence when he threatened to destroy Earth. It was a moment where Vegeta would have done anything to keep his family alive, even if it meant kissing the ass of someone who once threatened and arranged for the death of his father and his planet. He understood that Beerus was a God of Destruction, and he was someone untouchable, unbeatable. Of course, Kakarot never had those restrictions. He saw a challenging threat, and he took great pleasure in doing everything he could to meet it. He fought for the fun of it, he fought to protect others, and he fought to better himself. He was a true warrior, and it was why Vegeta had no choice to tip his hat to him. At that point, Kakarot had remained resolute while Vegeta softened beyond recognition.

If Vegeta wasn’t a Saiyan, then what was he? If the Prince of all Saiyans was a man who upheld his pride above all else for the sake of his people, yet his people were nonexistent and his pride gone, then would he still be a prince? Did the destruction of his planet invalidate his status?

Did this new softness that he had succumbed to void the remaining of his Saiyan heritage, being that his only connecting attribute was gone?

He rubbed his temples, leaning back against the wall. Next to him, Bulma huffed before she leaned forward, placing a tentative hand on his arm. Trying her best to butter him up into talking like she always did.

“Alright, Vegeta. You’ve been like this for the last few days. What’s wrong?”

He jerked his arm from her warm grasp.

“Nothing to note.”

“Now that’s the biggest load of crap I’ve heard in a while. You’ve been even more despondent than usual.”

He grunted, and she pushed a bit harder.

“What is it? Is it about yesterday? I already told you I forgave you.”

“I don’t care about that.”

She frowned, retracting her hand and balling it into a fist. “Well, geez, that’s real nice of you. Okay then, so is it about Trunks?”

“No.”

“Is it—?”

“For god’s sake woman, can’t I simply have peace and quiet without it turning into a debacle?”

“If you didn’t look like a sour prune. Come on, what’s on your mind?”

He remained silent, and she pushed one last time.

“You know I’m not going to be able to understand what you’re thinking. I’m not telepathic, and it’s not like you and I are exactly the same. You Saiyans are too damn ambiguous sometimes. So just—what? Did I say something wrong?”

“…No, not at all.” Vegeta frowned. “You can’t understand me because I’m a Saiyan.”

“Well, of course not, that’s common sense. I’ve known Goku all his life and I still don’t get why he pulls some of the stunts he does. But I guess that’s what makes him unique. You’re not really any different from him.” She tilted her head, something quickly piecing itself together in her mind.

“Don’t tell me…”

Vegeta glanced at her, gauging her expression. Her face revealed nothing but amusement. “What?”

“Are you having a mid-life identity crisis?”

He blanched, his body twisting away from hers. “A _what_?”

“A mid-life identity crisis. Oh my god, you _are_!” She laughed like she done lost her mind, reaching over to give him a hug that he most certainly did not need or want. But she was persistent, and when she started digging her manicured nails into his bodysuit, he relented just long enough for her to wrap her arms around him. He could have pried her off, but he hadn’t because of that same softness that infiltrated his blood.

She snickered as if it was the funniest thing in the world, and he felt himself tense a bit, causing her to realize how uncomfortable he was.

“Sorry, sorry, I just didn’t expect that at all.” She pulled back and patted his arm before sitting next to him.

“So you know Chichi used to be a martial artist, right? Since she was the daughter of the Ox King? Oh, you didn’t? Okay, so now you know. Goku’s loving wife was once a really strong fighter. And after she met Goku, she gave it up to be a housewife. But when Goten was born, I heard that she volunteered to teach him how to fight, and well, you see how strong Goten has become.”

She gave him a soft smile. “Chichi may be a housewife now, but that doesn’t change the fact that she was once in the Tenkaichi Tournament. What makes Chichi her is her past. As long as you never forget where you came from, no matter how much you change, you’ll still be you, Vegeta. The Prince of all Saiyans that you love to boast about so much. That hasn’t changed from before you came to Earth. And don’t think that because you’re nicer now, you’re not, well, you.”

Maybe it was because she could tell he didn’t quite believe her, so she continued.

“What’s the one thing you like to do?”

Without even battling an eyelash, he answered, “What kind of question is that? Obviously I’d prefer to train.”

“Then you’ve answered your own concern. Isn’t the Saiyan race a bunch of warriors who love to fight?”

He thought about it. That was true. Despite everything, he still had the compulsion to become stronger, even if it was for the sake of protecting his family and keeping up with Kakarot. His eyebrows smoothed, and from the corner of his eye, he could see that self-satisfied grin on her face, and he huffed. She gave him another one of those warm smiles that made him feel porcupine spikes prick the insides of his skin, and he locked his eyes with the door opposite to her.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t need your help.”

“Sure you didn’t.” She stood up, dusting the front of her pants. She gave one last look at him before humming to herself, returning back to her lab, leaving Vegeta with his thoughts.

That was fine. For now, at least, he'd try to take her words to heart.

Except for the next time he was given a reason to doubt himself again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> It's funny, I'm reading fanfictions and I feel so spurred on to finish this thing. I don't know how カカべジ (just to keep things neutral, since this _is_ a gen fic) inspires me so much. And it's not even with ideas, it's just...energy to finish what I started. Even at strange times in the morning lol. So tired...probably going to be editing this lots later on.


End file.
